


The Smell of Cookies

by squeaklings



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen, Post-Series, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:09:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4994977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squeaklings/pseuds/squeaklings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winry takes it upon herself to help Al with his occupational therapy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smell of Cookies

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently fell back into FMA hard, and because the world always needs more Al fic, I wrote this little thing up. It was inspired by the prompt "baking cookies."

Alphonse stared at the mixing bowl in front of him, then over to the girl waiting expectantly a few steps away.

“Um, Winry…”

She grinned. “You need to get better as fast as possible, isn’t that what you said?”

Al nodded and looked back at the bowl, then down at the ingredients on the table before him. His crutch rested against the table, a few mere inches away, and he rested his hands on his lap. “I don’t think making cookies is going to help my body get back into shape though?”

Winry rolled her eyes and blew out a breath. “I saw you trying to write a letter the other day, Al. Doing small tasks is still difficult, isn’t it?”

Al nodded again, his eyes going over the ingredients. Eggs, flour, sugar, milk, butter, baking powder, vanilla. “I still don’t understand how this is supposed to help.” Except he did, if he was completely honest with himself. It just seemed silly.

“Baking is all about the small tasks,” Winry said, and held up a finger in that way she did when she was about to lapse into some admonishment or lecture. “Mrs. Hughes taught me that.”

Al flexed his fingers against his knees. When one thought of atrophied limbs, they thought of legs that couldn’t walk, or of arms that couldn’t lift. Fingers that had trouble bending or holding a pencil weren’t quite at the top of the list.

“Ok.” He looked back at her and smiled, his hollow cheeks flushed slightly. “Show me what to do.”

Winry tied an apron on, and helped him tie his when he fumbled with the knot at his back. He stood carefully, leaning on the table for support and to catch his breath, and Winry walked him through all the steps to make a delicious batch of sugar cookies. Measure and pour the flour, sugar and baking powder; cut in some butter; break the eggs, then add the milk and vanilla and mix it all together. He used his hands for that part, and feeling the dough squish between his fingers was both weird (ew, sticky) and exhilarating (yeah it was sticky, but at least he could _feel_ it). 

He could sense his brother’s presence a little after they’d begun, the older Elric standing in the doorway with his shoulder against the wood paneling. Al glanced over his shoulder at Ed and grinned, and Ed gave him a thumbs up before Winry chased him out of the kitchen for being a distraction. Her face was bright red when she returned, and Al heard her muttering under her breath about stupid boys and ruining surprises.

“So,” Al said, trying to keep the humor out of his voice as he grabbed some dough and rolled it into a ball, “is this really to help me, or did you just need an extra hand to help you make cookies for my brother?”

If possible, Winry’s face went even darker, and Al laughed so hard his chest hurt. Winry punched his arm. He relished the sensation.

With the last sheet of cookies in the oven and all their utensils in the sink, Al sank down into the chair, his hands aching and his breath short but with a huge smile on his face. Winry pulled a chair to sit next to him, a grin on her still slightly red-cheeked face. The cookies smelled amazing, and Al closed his eyes to take in the scent, letting the sensation wash over him. Two months returned to his body, and he still found pleasure in every sense, every touch and smell and taste, and he thought he’d feel that way for the rest of his life.

“I can’t wait to try one,” he said finally, eyeing the rack of cookies cooling over near the oven. “It won’t be like the apple pie, right?” He blushed at the memory and Winry laughed.

“I think your body can handle this level of sugar by now,” she said, and winked. “But we can keep a bucket handy just in case.”

Al groaned and sank lower in his chair, his face as red as Winry’s had been when she saw Ed watching them. It might not have been the first thing he ate after getting his body back, but it was the first thing Winry’d made after they arrived back in Resembool. The pie had smelled amazing—had _tasted_ amazing. Or it had, anyway, for the few minutes he’d been able to keep it down.

Winry patted his knee. “You ready to help do the dishes?”

Al flexed his hands, sore from cracking eggs and pouring flour and kneading dough, and nodded. He pushed himself upright in the chair, then hauled himself to his feet using the table as leverage.

“Yeah.”

“Ohh, cookies!” Ed was in the doorway again, his nose in the air as he sniffed. Winry slammed her hands on the table and launched herself to her feet as Ed grabbed two of the still-warm cookies.

“Ed! You put those back!”

Ed gave her a cheeky grin and took a bite out of one as he rushed to the doorway, Winry on his heels. Al stood watching them, a big smile on his face.

_I wonder if May would like some cookies, too?_ he thought, then realized what he’d just thought and looked about the same as Winry looked just then, bright red and running around the house after his brother.

But even that feeling he cherished, holding a hand to his chest to feel his heart beating, heat radiating off his face. He took the small notebook he always carried out of his pocket, and in very slow, careful writing he jotted down the sugar cookie recipe. He could tell her all about it in his next letter.

Then he shuffled over to the sink. His hands still ached, but he rolled his sleeves up anyway. The dishes weren’t going to wash themselves.

He did, however, sneak a cookie before he got to work.


End file.
